


Games Wizards Play

by Pixileanin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Centaurs, Community: HPFT, Contests, Curling, Dark, Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff and Humor, Games, Gen, Hogwarts, House Elves, Magic, Rabbits, Television Watching, Toads, kitchen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 02:46:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10480410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixileanin/pseuds/Pixileanin
Summary: A series of one-shots written for a "HP games" themed challenge. I'm excited to have these little guys all in one spot.  These are some of the quickest writing I've ever done, where I did not allow my inner critic to double guess anything.  Some ideas worked better than others, but the whole exercise was an invaluable experience.  Thanks for reading!





	1. Wheel of Misfortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort

Wheel of Misfortune: submitted on 6/22/2015

Voldemort sat in his inner sanctum, a small, sparse room with drapery-lined walls and a single flaming candle for light. He relaxed in his oversized La-z-wiz chair and propped his feet up. With a flick of his wand, a small, black box came to life, showing him moving pictures, but not the kind that looped endlessly in a short, ten-second cycle. These pictures were alive and projected images from far away places. The show host’s face smiled up at him. 

“Greetings, my Lord. We are just getting ready to begin, and we are honored by your viewing. In two minutes, the show will begin.”

Voldemort stretched, a yawn threatening to stretch his face out. The Death Eater meeting had been so tiring and completely unproductive. It was a good thing he had gotten home in time for his favorite show. Just a few seconds more of the dancing trolls, and then the featured presentation would soon take his worries away.

A short knock on the door jolted him out of his semi-relaxed state. That rat-faced man poked his head in, quivering. “My Lord?”

Voldemort grunted. Wheel of Misfortune was about to begin. He had a bag of crisps in one hand and a cola in the other. He didn’t want to be misinformed again. 

“Go away!”

The door shut tightly, and his shoulders slouched into the cushions. The game show had been specifically designed for him. He paid homage to it. It was his escape, his refuge. When his master plan succeeded, it would be his religion…

“My Lord?”

“What IS it??”

He scowled at the door. A henchman, Trevors… Traversty… he couldn’t recall the name that belonged to the source of his irritation. The man quivered, much like the rat-faced one, only this time he spoke. 

“We have information…”

“You should have given it to me an hour ago at the meeting,” Voldemort said, and sent a stunning charm at the man’s face. Treebeard fell backwards out of the room and the door slid shut again. There was silence and the screen went blank. Then, the little box lit up with wild colors and a fancy dance tune, flashing the words across the screen. Voldemort’s lips moved soundlessly.

“Wheel…”

“of…

 

“Misfortune!”

Voldemort cackled softly to himself as the viewer scanned a room full of chalk-white faces full of fear and apprehension. They would be selected at random, and then spin a wheel that would tell them how they were going to die. This was going to make his night so much better…

“My Lord…”

“Ahhh!” 

Voldemort sat forward in the chair, making it creak loudly. The wheel was already spinning, clack, clack, clack...

“What?” he shouted at the interruption.

“Umm… err… this might be important…”

“If it isn’t life-threatening, I would recommend that you not interrupt me.”

The door creaked on its hinge, and only a man’s nose poked into the room. On the screen, the wheel slowed to a stop. The marker pointed to “Black Adder”.

“Well?” he asked impatiently. “Is it?”

“Err…”

“Is it life-threatening?”

“Well, umm… no, but…”

“Reducto!”

The door slammed shut again, and Voldemort heard something crack. It could have been the nose, or the face it was attached to. Either way, it let him concentrate on the screen. He’d missed the introductions, but it didn’t matter really what the witch liked to do on Saturdays, or what the wizard’s place of employment was. They were going to die anyway. That was what he wanted to see. A little blood. A bit of chips and cola. A nice, relaxing evening in front of the Wiz-Telly.

Voldemort shifted in his chair, trying to get the day’s disappointments to wash away, but the events niggled in his mind. The way that rat-faced man had hemmed and hawed and NOT known the information he was commanded to retrieve in time for the meeting. How dare he! Lord Voldemort had a schedule. A life outside of Death Eating and terror. This show, for instance, was the highlight of his week. The witch was sobbing now, while her husband was dangled by his toes over a pit of vipers. 

There was no knock. The door burst open, and the rat-faced man was back with a bandage over one eye. “My Lord!” he panted, completely out of breath. “We have it!”

“You have one minute to explain to me this interruption, or you will be exterminated!” 

Voldemort didn’t have to shout. His terrifying demeanor did all of the shouting for him.

“We’ve got him.”

Suddenly, a gangly, mess of a man was shoved before him, sliding on his knees and cowering in his presence.

Voldemort appreciated the sentiment, but the man’s head was blocking his view of the wizard on the Telly being eaten alive. 

“Tell me.”

“They’re hiding in plain sight, my Lord. I know where it is. I can take you right to them. James and Lily won’t even know we’re coming. I can…”

“Tell me.”

It was more of a command than a request. He wasn’t going to miss his show for a romp through Wizarding England, following this slimy git around. He’d know when he heard the words. That’s how it would be real. In the background, cries of pain were slipping through the witch’s mouth, her eyes tearing up as her head began to expand at an alarming rate. He must have already missed the spinning wheel selection and the reaction of the crowd, which he loved. There was no better sound than a collective gasp of horror.

“This better be real,” he told the quivering mess in front of him.

The groveling minion spoke in run-on sentences and spilled out a truth that made the air around them crackle and splutter. A Fidelius Charm was being broken.

Voldemort hurled his can of cola at the Wiz-Telly. The screen shattered behind the traitor’s head, who stared wide-eyed up at his master. He grabbed his cloak and spun on the spot. It was unfortunate that he was going to miss this episode of Wheel of Misfortune. He was quite looking forward to seeing that witch’s head splatter all over the screen.

Someone was going to die for this.


	2. If You Can Dream It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luna Lovegood

If You Can Dream It: posted 6/23/2015

So there I was, standing at the entrance of Exhibition Ten Number Twelve at the Wizarding World’s Fair. The energy in the air was indescribable. In this place, the best, newest magical devices were tried, tested, and evaluated. I had dreamed of this moment. I had the badge. I had the clipboard. I was going to introduce the Wizarding World to the next best thing.

The high contenders from yesterday were still fresh on my mind. I was possibly swayed by the broom restoring potion and the transparent floo powder because I’d made a bad habit of parking my broom too close to the fireplace most nights, and being allergic to floo dust… Personal issues aside, I was committed to delivering fair, unbiased judgments to every item on my schedule.

In the next minute, I was completely taken with the automatic coffee generator. I had looked around for the demonstrator, but all I found was a sign that said, “Free Coffee Subscription To Exhibitors” and a paragraph of fine print below it for the instructions. I searched for an actual machine or contraption of some kind, expecting my badge to attract whoever it was that had set this up. Surely, they would want to explain their invention to me for full credit. 

After not spotting anyone, I decided to try it out. Seriously, I hadn’t been getting much sleep, with all the excitement and hubbub around me. This was fabulous. All I had to do was hold my coffee mug in the air and Summon it. Sure, that didn’t seem like a big deal, but when the steaming, frothy substance got under my nose, it was heaven. Somewhere nearby, there was a complex system of tubes and grinders connected to a network of bean suppliers from around the globe. It was genius: a coffee service for Wizards. The ingenuity was in the subscription process and a series of convoluted portkey connections. In addition to the bean selection, there were about a zillion creamer and sweetener options to choose from. As the sign said, “If You Can Dream It, You Can Drink It”. This was getting high marks, no matter what.

I nearly choked on said coffee when I looked up at the next exhibitor on my list. She was wearing ridiculous goggles, her exhibitor’s robes were fluorescent purple. There were these dangly things hanging from tiny piercings in her ears that I couldn’t puzzle out. I know that as a wizard, I couldn’t say this with any credibility, but she looked outrageous. Otherworldly. The lenses of her glasses, it was more accurate to call them goggles… were three times the size of her eyes, with pink, rhinestone studded lashes attached. 

What. In. The. World.

I couldn’t form words. Was this woman actually going to attempt to convince me to try on the goggles? I was about to dismiss the entire outfit and skip to the Auto-Correct Quill Two-Eighty, where a reasonable Wizard in formal black was sitting patiently at his exhibition table, but then she spoke.

“Hello, sir. Am I next?”

I was immediately taken in by her voice. It was smooth and melodious. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine something quite beautiful. Unfortunately, the garish outfit made it hard to take whatever it was that she had behind that curtained partition seriously. Looking down at my clipboard, I cleared my throat and remembered my job.

Unbiased judgment. Sure.

I didn’t know what I should expect. Sunglasses? Visions into the future? The next style sensation? I’d been bombarded with these sorts of things in the pre-qualifying round. Most absurdly mundane things hadn’t even made it past the prospect letter stage, so I couldn’t imagine which of my colleagues had let this woman through. Still, the fact that she had the exhibit number and she was on my form meant that her invention was worth something to someone.

I looked up at her, tried very hard not to squint as the rhinestones flooded my eyes with the reflection of the lights around us, and said in my most professional tone, “Indeed. Please explain your invention.”

She smiled at me. Not one of those ‘I’m here to impress you’ smiles, but one of those ‘genuinely happy to be here’ smiles. She took my hand, actually grabbed hold of it clipboard and all, and led me behind the curtain.

Inside, it was quite dark. There wasn’t much to see except a lone folding chair in the middle of a square ‘room’ made up of four black curtains and swaths of fabric hanging tent-like over our heads. The woman led me to the chair.

“Careful,” she said, as if I couldn’t see it. “Please sit down while I check the settings.”

As far as I knew, she was simply gazing around the dimly lit room in her crack-worthy goggles, but as soon as I began to get impatient with nothing happening, she nodded once and took off the glasses.

“We’re ready.” 

I heard her words, but what drew my attention even more were her eyes. Even in the middle of the draped, dimly lit room, I could see that they were blue as the sky. They might even have had a light of their own. I couldn’t tell, because the next thing she said was, “Look straight ahead. We are starting now.”

She stepped back into a shadowed corner, and I would like to say that I heard a buzzing sound, but it was more like I felt it. The air trembled around me, making the hairs on my arm stand straight up. A cold shiver ran through my body, and I was glad I was sitting down when the flash of light completely disoriented me, and I found myself above a large grassy knoll on the edge of some gigantic mountain. The view I had looking down was spectacular. As I was lowered to the ground, some brush touched my leg, and I felt it like I was there. 

Was I?

I whipped my head around, and the woman was still with me, standing in the same location, except now, her hair was blowing in a light breeze. “You can stand up now,” she said in that same melodious voice. “The first time takes a bit of adjusting, like apparition, but then you get accustomed to the orientation. Do you need a vomit bag?”

That last question caught me off guard. “Err, no,” I said. “I feel fine.”

There was that smile again. She was simply pleased. “Very good,” she said. “You may explore at your leisure.”

“Where… where are we?” I asked. Everything looked so real that it was not impossible to imagine that the chair I had been sitting in was a portkey of some kind, except that there had been no spinning, and I didn’t see the woman touching it, which wouldn’t explain why she was here with me.

“Technically, we’re still in the exhibition hall. This is a replica of the edge of the Carpathian Mountains. We are very near a nesting ground for the Ukrainian Ironbelly. I think you’ll find…”

She was suddenly interrupted by a great scream from above. I looked up just in time to see a great grey shape block out the sun. Its wingspan was enormous, and it dove straight for us. A jet of flame shot out, scorching hot. I instinctively threw up my arms to shield myself from becoming a toasted crisp as the world thrown into murky darkness. 

I was still standing, somewhat, though I couldn’t feel the floor beneath me. The woman’s hair was now rising above her head, floating, as if she was completely underwater. The pages of my clipboard began to bob with the current.

We were underwater?

I tried to speak to her, but she just smiled and pointed to a group of merpeople swimming past us. I briefly wondered why we weren’t floating up to the surface, but before I could figure out how to make the sounds in the strange watery environment, the scene shifted again, and I found myself back in the drapery room. I was standing up, several feet away from the chair, and the woman’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

She led me back out of the cloth room, and I had to squint this time to readjust my eyes. Her hair was quite dry, I noticed, as were my papers. But the water had felt so real. 

“What is this?” I asked.

“It’s a simulation.”

“A what?”

“Oh, that’s a Muggle term for a sophisticated way of playing pretend, except some of it is real. Like the heat from the fire, or the water. We could go back. I could show you how to swim in it if you like.”

“No, thank you,” I said, having caught the time on my watch. The ‘simulation’ had taken longer than it felt, and I was due at the next exhibit in just a few minutes. 

Her smile faded a little, but she kept on with her explanation. “I created a scenario for each of the trials of the Triwizard Tournament. The Hedge Maze even has trolls in it. If the room is expanded, you can most likely create any Quidditch Pitch in the known world and fly a broom in it. The possibilities are endless.”

For once, I wished I had a Quick-Quotes Quill. I was taking notes as fast as I could write. This whole concept took a great amount of wizarding skill and I had never seen anything like it before.

I couldn’t figure it out. I knew we hadn’t portkeyed to those places. The imagery was clear and vibrant, quite unlike a Pensieve. The woman had been with me the entire time, quite visible and active, so it wasn’t Legilimency. 

“How does it work?” I asked. 

She didn’t answer my question. Instead, she held out her goggles. I think the coffee in my stomach actually gurgled with disappointment. I knew there had to be a trick. This was too good to be true.

“Really. I’d like to know how you managed this much realism in your display.”

The woman looked uncomfortable for the first time since I’d met her. “Put on the glasses. Please.” Her blue eyes filled with worry.

I took the glasses… goggles… briefly scanned the area to make sure there wasn’t anyone with a camera about, and slipped them on. My vision was suddenly filled with stars. Tiny specks, glowing all around the curtains. The woman parted the curtain slightly, and I peeked inside. The square room was filled with them. I had walked into the thick of that. In the place where the woman had stood, I saw a series of levers and pulleys and strange dials, which must have been the controls that she had talked about.

She quickly closed the curtains and held out her hand. I took that to mean that she wanted her strange glasses back, so I gave them to her.

My vision cleared, but my head was full of ideas. “Those things that I saw. The lights. What were they?”

The woman took a deep breath. “They are Nargles, sir.”

I’d never heard of Nargles. But then, I’d never heard of a lot of things that people showed me here. 

“You can control them?” I asked.

“In a way. Mostly, they control you. You’ve got to keep an open mind. People laugh, and then they see.”

I was scribbling down furiously as she spoke. “I see.”

“You do?”

I finished my notes, and handed her a finalist’s badge. “First rate, Miss Lovegood. Well done.”


	3. Iron Stomach Competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron Weasley

Iron Stomach Competition

 

Lavender Brown was lying back on the Gryffindor common room couch, upside down, feet dangling over the head cushions. “You know you want to.”

Ron’s stomach grumbled. Since he’d started dating her, he’d acquired a healthy dose of skepticism. He’d missed lunch today because she’d had him doing weird things like walking around the castle going nowhere just so she could hold his hand and sitting in the damp grass while she at the lake, saying how romantic it looked. 

“What’s the catch?”

Lavender smiled sweetly. “No catch. The House Elves need a judge for their cooking competition. I thought you’d be perfect.”

Ron’s stomach expanded. House Elves, cooking to impress him?? How much better could it get? “I’ll do it!”

“Great!” She flipped over the end of the couch and ran a hand through her hair. “I’ll let them know. They’ll want you in the kitchens in one hour. Bring your appetite!”

Ron was looking forward to eating scrumptious creations and filling the void from the lost meal opportunity because of Lavender. He never missed a meal. 

Except that one time, when his twin brothers had Transfigured his mashed potatoes into spiders. He’d had to leave the table. Ron hated spiders, even the gummy ones that the Train Trolley sold. Their’ little hairy legs moved, and everything!

But House Elves made the most amazing things. Ron could only imagine what they’d come up with if they tried to outdo each other. His mouth watered as he made his way to the kitchens. 

“Welcome, Master Weasley, esteemed judge of our competition!” The little elf greeted him at the entrance and led him through a small tunnel under the Great Hall. On the far side, beyond the four House tables, Ron was led up a steep set of steps to a small table set with golden cutlery and a stack of linen napkins. The elf excused himself and scurried away.

Soon after, a whole host of elves gathered at each table. It looked to Ron as if the elves were sorting themselves by House and preparing the tables for boiling, a frying, and baking. 

Pop, pop! An assortment of potted herbs appeared next to large chopping blocks at each table. Ron sniffed the air. Rosemary, thyme, parsley… mmmm. He would give his left arm for baked chicken right now.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the back of the hall. He looked up to see his least favorite professor surrounded by elves, and swearing at them all. Professor Snape’s long nose bent over them.

“I am only here because I lost that bet with Argus Flich. I don’t even LIKE pudding. Quit stepping on my boots, you pithy beasts!”

Ron cringed as Professor Snape was corralled to a podium. “What, him??” Snape sneered in Ron’s general direction. “The judge, you say?”

The House Elves whispered amongst themselves and presented Professor Snape with a small cue card. The prodded him until he took it and read aloud.

“Ahem, this is the first annual House Elf Culinary Cook Off, and I, as your… Master of Ceremonies… are to announce the terms of this competition.”

One of the House Elves proffered a glass of water to the professor, and he drank half the glass before setting it down again without a thank you, Ron noticed.

“There will be five courses. An appetizer, a soup, a main course, a beverage and a dessert.”

At this point, Ron’s stomach couldn’t take the suspense. It rumbled loudly, echoing throughout the hall.

Professor Snape cleared his throat again and looked askance at Ron, who withered in his sight. “The Master of Ceremonies must choose a secret ingredient, which should be incorporated into all courses. These foods shall be presented to the judge…” he took another look at Ron, who withered even more… “who shall sample each entry and select a winning entree.”

The professor fell silent, and all of the House Elves held their breaths. Then he spoke. “The secret ingredient, I choose it?”

The whole Hall nodded with murmured consent.

“Very well.” Professor Snape looked straight at Ron and announced, “The secret ingredient will be spider legs!”


	4. Roar!

Roar!

 

“Okay, okay,” Rose said when all the cousins were gathered around the dessert table after Nana Molly’s scrumptious Sunday dinner. “Who can roar the loudest?”

James and Freddy launched themselves into a complete raucous of growling and roaring. They were the oldest of the Weasley-Potter cousins. Freddy had gone off to Hogwarts first, and James was back for his first Christmas Break. Both were in Gryffindor and were still sporting garnet and gold colors from the train ride home.

“Roaaaar!!” Hugo coughed. “Roo--ah--cough cough”. He swallowed. “Er. Pass the ice cream, please.”

James patted him on the back. “That’s the spirit, Hugo! You’ll need to perfect that before you get to Hogwarts.”

Rose passed the ice cream to her little brother and let out a loud roar of her own. Little Hugo, barely nine years old, looked up at his cousin in awe. “You think I’ll be in Gryffindor?”

“We’ll all be in Gryffindor,” James said confidently. “Our mums and dads were in Gryffindor. It’s like, hereditary or something. What about you, Albus?”

Albus sprang from the couch and landed in front of the apple turnovers. “ROAR!! I’m going to be the biggest Gryffindor of them all!”

They’d been playing this game for as long as any of them could remember. Gryffindor Roar, they called it. Each year, they’d gotten louder and louder, until it was almost surreal to have a handful of the cousins actually go to Hogwarts and get sorted into Gryffindor for real. 

Albus had been so excited when the first letter from his brother had come by owl and he saw the Gryffindor crest. He’d exclaimed an exuberant “I knew it!” and shared the pride of his parents. He’d have to wait one more year before he could go to Hogwarts himself with Rose. But he was so prepared for the Sorting that he couldn’t wait.

“Roar!”

“Roar!”

“Roar, roar roar!”

“Quiet down, children! You’re Great Aunt Muriel’s trying to nap.”

***

Sitting in the Great Hall in front of all those people, Albus couldn’t believe that all eyes were finally on him. But the words of his father still rang in his ears from the train station that morning. At eleven, he wasn’t sure anymore about the inevitability of being Sorted into the great House of Gryffindor. In fact, he’d seen a few bewildered faces get out of this very chair and wander off to a House table that they hadn’t been expecting.

Jenny Finnegan had been sorted into Hufflepuff.

Herbert Longbottom had gone off to Ravenclaw.

This strange kid with platinum hair had gone to Slytherin, but he’d at least seemed happy about it.

Albus knew that there were four Houses for a reason, but his entire life, he’d been preparing for Gryffindor. Suddenly, when the prospect of making his childhood dream a reality, he was uncertain.

Gryffindors were brave. Gryffindors were loyal. Albus was both brave AND loyal. And he was smart. And cunning, James had said so. And he was kind, like his cousin Rose was always telling him. He could fit into any House at all.

“Slytherin!” the Sorting Hat announced, knocking Albus out of his head and back to the Great Hall. There was an immediate rush of sound coming from the table with the silver and green. A great, resounding cacophony filled his ears.

Albus smiled. He could definitely belong to a House that roared like that!


	5. Perfect Pastry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly Headless Nick

Perfect Pastry

 

“Call me Sir. Call me Nick. But don’t call me late for dinner.”

Plum pudding. His mother fastened him to her apron strings as soon as he could toddle. his world view consisted of thick thighs and floured hands. There was nothing to do but look up at the world, hoping to avoid the spray of steam or the grease splatter from the spit. Fresh milk curdled, infertile eggs hatched. Wreaking havoc behind his mother’s back became his pastime and his play. 

He wished away his mother’s bunions on his sixth birthday and was rewarded with a honey cake. They called her a fool for raising the devil’s child, but she fattened him on buttered buns and waved away the notion that he was anything by angelic.

Sun up to sun down, the counters and cooking pots shrank in on him and no longer held mystery. He whetted knives and roasted parsnips, and one day when his own toes broke through his boyhood boots, a man with a heavy lisp collected him and taught him how to use a stick.

He created partridges out of thin air and snuffed them back to nothing. He traded pots for cauldrons and flew a broom instead of sweeping the floor. Every night at supper, he was in heaven. Pastries and porridges, steamed parsnips and mountains of merengue. He fell in love with milk and honey. One taste expanded his world. 

Nights he spent reading culinary texts, sneaking into the kitchens to watch the House Elves work their magic. Nicholas mimicked their moves, memorized their rhythms. Crept back into bed and dreamt of kneading, kneading, kneading.

The man with the lisp spoke like a snake and filled his head with wild things. 

“Payment for services, Nicholas. Can you imagine?”

Nicholas set his childhood dreams aside and settled in a small town near London. He used a wand instead of a pestle and called himself ‘healer’. A line of customers snaked through the streets daily, and went home healthy and cured. Some people sang for their supper. Nicholas worked for simple pottage and never went hungry. 

On cold nights, he warmed himself with dreams of sugared pears and pastry-wrapped apples.

After a harsh blizzard, he was sent for by the Royal Court. He cured the queen from Winder Fever, and suddenly found himself with room and board, and a leash around his neck. He received crackers and a stump of meat every week.

Bad blood, Bilius fever. Scotomy, Screws. Swish. Flick. A slight warming sensation, and they walked back to health. He tended to the weak, fixed maladies of the body, all the while aching in his stomach for the sweet cry of confection.

Nicholas discovered that he could not cure his own affliction. The cravings ate away at him, and no meat stump or cracker could sate him. 

Royal confections were spoken of in hushed whispers in the night. Pastries that floated, light as air, sweet as a mother’s kiss. When the proclamations went up, Nicholas went out and staked his claim to a different kind of fame.

“I shall enter the pastry-making competition,” he declared.

His associates scoffed at him, the Healer, dirtying his hands with flour and butter, but Nicholas was not to be deterred from his dream any longer.

Butters Brothersby from Kentshire matted his hair down with greasy palms. Kitchbauen of Baden Baden floured up his board. Nicholas, the Healer stood in awe of them and prepared himself for the chance at eternal glory. 

The day was hot, mid-August, and Brothersby’s butter began to run. Kitchbauen watched it with gleeful eyes until his dough turned stiff under heavy hands. Nicholas’ foes fell to each other’s faults, but he stood firm, flicking his fingers at the ice buckets to keep his ingredients cool, counting his palm rotations until the pastry flowed under his hands, just the way he remembered it from the kitchens at Hogwarts.

Nicholas’ pastry was perfection. He was hailed throughout the kingdom, received a Knighthood, and was relieved of his servitude to the Royal Court. They called it magical. A taste of paradise.

Sir Nicholas returned to his mother and paid for her retirement. He made her pastries for her supper every night and kept her in good health until she reached the ripe old age of one hundred twenty-three.


	6. The Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugo Weasley

The Bet

 

Come on, it'd be fun, he said.

Riley picked up the quill. It quivered in her hand. What if she got the words wrong? Would they bite her?

It was supposed to be a game. A stupid game. One word after the other, and that was it. At first, she’d been excited about the prospect of beating her opponent. She was so sure of herself when she’d first agreed to the challenge, but now… She was a fifth year Ravenclaw. Words were her friends, her refuge. When did it get to be so complicated?

When did her owl start staring at her like he was going to eat her fingers if she didn't do it exactly right?

And what was exactly right, anyway?

And who was she writing to?

That boy Hugo, and his infectious smile. She’d managed to be in his same House, in the same year, and not learned much of anything about him in all that time. He’d not really noticed her either, always too busy, or busy… or, you know… busy like everyone else in their House was. But suddenly, there he was, standing in her train compartment with that smile, and actually talking to her.

And then he’d threatened her happy place.

She crumpled up the parchment and threw it across the room. It bounced off the windowsill and rolled to a stop at the edge of her bed, collecting in a mass of smooshed balls of white. If she kept this up, her room would be flooded with the things. Wrinkled pigmy puffs – starved, hairless dead things, scattered all over her bedroom.

Orwin wouldn't touch them. He gave out an undignified hoot and kept staring.

She stared, too. At the parchment. Yeah, this was going well. One letter, every night. Whoever froze first would forfeit the first seat on the train. 

Merlin, she loved that first compartment more than anything. The heaters warmed her toes and the puff of the engine floated by the window. Better than chocolate frogs. Better than cauldron cakes. 

She picked up the quill again, determined not to get cold feet in January.

He'd offered to arm wrestle for the preferred seat, but she thought this would be more fair.

More doable.

Argh! Why was it so hard to write a stupid letter?

A smart tapping made her drop her quill and splatter specks of ink on the clean sheet of parchment.

"Argh, Orwin! I'm doing my best. I'm trying!" 

But when she looked up, Orwin was still on his perch. Still staring. But now at the window.

It was his owl. Pecking at her glass. He'd written. First. 

She flung open the window, almost knocking the poor bird off the ledge. 

"Sorry," she whispered. It wasn't the owl's fault. It was only fourteen days, and she couldn't even come up with something to say on day one. Useless.

He was pretty, though. Keen, brown feathers with black at the tips. Piercing yellow eyes, and white tufts on his head. She sighed appreciatively.

Orwin hooted.

Yeah, don't drool over someone else's owl. She untied the parchment from his leg. It was small and ragged around the edges, like he'd torn it from a larger sheet. She didn't know if this counted, and was about to make herself sick with worry that she'd have to dig out those wooly socks for the train ride until she unrolled it and saw two words.

She couldn't help it. She smiled.

Knock, knock.

She didn't know whether to be mad or play along. He hadn't said how many words they needed to use, and she really wasn't sure what the point of writing every day was. It was only fourteen days...

But she also really didn't want to dig out those socks. They made her feet itch. And the cushions. Why did those cushions have to be softer than all the other cushions on the train?

"Fine, fine," she said, giving his owl a treat. She didn't even know his owl's name, but he deserved something for bringing her two measly little words. Extra treats. He gobbled them up and made a clicking sound with his beak. 

She hoped that meant he was happy.

She giggled a little, knowing what she wanted to write, knowing it was silly, but it didn't matter because it counted. Everything counted. Days, words, smiles... having warm feet. 

She picked up the quill again, not minding the splatter, not minding that the scrawl was messy, because it was late after all, and today would be tomorrow in a few minutes.

No, that didn't matter either. 

What mattered was that she had the words now. She scribbled them down, rolled up the scrap even before the ink was dry and sent his owl on its way. 

One day down, thirteen to go. Maybe when they got back to school, it’d be more than just scribbled words on parchment. But this game, she wasn't about to let him win.

***

"Hey you,Thurgood." 

Hugo sat up in bed as his owl came through the window. It was cold outside, and he hadn't expected that McLaggen girl to reply so soon, but he hadn't wanted to give up on the outside chance that she'd actually do it. 

Riley. With the pretty nose.

He just wanted a reaction. Something that let him know she thought more of him than just the guy in her Potions class who let her borrow his chopping knife. The bloke who sat behind her in Transfiguration. The kid in her Magical Creatures class that was always trying to crack jokes. If she thought about him at all. Threatening her favorite seat on the train seemed like something memorable. Something that would stick with her for more than a moment.

His owl hopped around on his writing desk, scattering the coins he'd emptied from his pockets for the night. They clattered to the floor, and he had to climb out of bed to sort it out. The owl almost clambered over his head, and he chuckled at it and chucked treats at it until it calmed down.

There was a roll of parchment on its leg.

Well, he hadn't expected a reply so soon. But he was curious. 

He unrolled his own scrap that he'd sent to her, at first thinking that she'd sent it back unread, until he saw that it had more words on it than before.

Who's there?

He ruffled his owl's feathers, which the owl didn't really like, but he couldn't help it. He went to sleep with a smile in his lips, threatening to split his cheeks apart, thinking of tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. And maybe on the train ride back to Hogwarts they could share the compartment… they hadn’t discussed the terms if there happened to be an even score between them.

The game had begun.


	7. Gridlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose Granger-Weasley

Gridlock

Rose Granger-Weasley gathered up her books and turned to leave the Charms classroom, but a whole mess of students blocked the door.

“What’s going on? Why isn’t everyone moving?” she wanted to know. 

“We can’t get out,” said Emily Vance from the doorway. “Something’s not letting us go into the corridor.”

“Let me see, let me see!” Rose shoved her way to the door and saw what everyone else had been looking at. The entire corridor had been painted with a glowing grid and some invisible barrier prevented anyone from stepping out of the room.

She pushed her way back into the room and looked for their professor, but he had mysteriously disappeared. 

“Did anyone see Professor Sprout leave?” she asked, but the other students were too busy pushing against each other and getting nowhere.

“Wait!” Amber McKinnon squeaked. “Does anyone have a rock?”

“What’d you need a rock for?” Ernie Creevy asked.

“I see a spot on the far wall. Maybe if we hit it, the grids will go away,” Emily explained. All her friends gave her strange looks until she added, “I saw it in one of those Muggle moving picture things.”

“I don’t think anyone has a rock, and we’re first-years, we can’t even Transfigure anything yet,” said another student from the back with black hair and a pretty pink bow. That was all that Rose could see of her, since everyone else was blocking her view.

Rose hadn’t been at Hogwarts for very long. It was only the second week of school, and so she tried very hard to remember the names of the people around her that she’d been introduced to. It was hard. There were so many unfamiliar faces and the castle was so, so big! She still got lost about once a day, and now it seemed that everyone in her Charms class was going to be late for their next lesson. 

Her next class was all the way in the dungeons.

“We’ll be stuck in here forever!” wailed Genevieve Longbottom, who began to cry.

Rose thought and thought. “Amber,” she asked. “Do you think a knut would do instead of a rock?”

“Well,” Amber considered. “I suppose, but I don’t know how to aim a knut. I’m better at throwing rocks.”

“I’ll do it!” Ernie shouted out. “I’m right good with flipping knuts. Does anyone have one?”

The crying girl fished one out of her robe pocket and sniffed. “Don’t lose it. It’s my lucky coin.”

Ernie snatched it from the girl and chucked it at the spot that Amber had pointed out. It hit straight on, but nothing happened. The whole class groaned in disappointment as the knut bounced off the wall and landed in the grid.

“Now what do we do?” Emily exclaimed.

“It’s all my fault!” the crying girl wailed through her sniffles. “I made a wish that I wouldn’t have to walk so much today, and it’s… it’s come true and now we’re all trapped in here! We’re all going to starve!!”

Rose tried to say something soothing to her, but all she could think of was what her cousin Fred had said that morning at breakfast. She hadn’t paid him any mind, because he was always teasing her about being new and how he was going to prank her sometime soon, and how she’d better be ready for it...

“Look at the floor!” Ernie cried. “The grid is turning purple and there’s a bunch of numbers on some of the squares.”

“Oh, oh, I know this game!” exclaimed Rose eagerly. “My mum taught it to me. It’s called Hopscotch. Here, I’ll show you how to play.”

She made her way to the edge of the classroom and miraculously, it let her pass through the door. But she was only allowed to step on the green squares. 

“So you hop like this,” she explained, hopping on the numbered squares. She hopped right over to the knut that was inside square number seven. She picked up the knut, and all the squares turned purple again.

“Now what?” called Amber from the door.

“I don’t know,” Rose called out, having trouble balancing on one foot in the middle of the corridor. 

“Toss it,” shouted Ernie. “Toss the knut down the hall!”

Rose did. Another set of green squares lit up with numbers, and she moved on down the hall. Behind her, the other students were crumpling up balls of parchment, taking off a shoe, or finding other small odds and ends that they could throw out into the corridor too. Rose and her classmates had great fun hopping all the way to Potions class… where they were late.

Fortunately, the Potions professor didn’t give them all detentions, but that didn’t stop Rose from giving her cousin Fred an earful at lunch!


	8. Friday Nights With Filch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he wants is fuzzy socks and his favorite knitting needles, but NOO...

Friday Nights with Filch

 

Argus Filch, gasped for breath as he chased two boys down a hallway. They’d snuck into his office, the slimy gits, and stolen his confiscated Monster Book of Monsters, the most vicious one of the bunch this year. Argus had hoped against hope in his early career that he could write up that sorry excuse of a teacher, that Hagrid fellow, for some breach of contract, something about being careless with the safety of the students…

That was until Professor McGonagall started encouraging students to Transfigure things into sharp objects, Professor Sprout had them harvesting mandrake roots and Professor Snape charged underaged witches and wizards… underaged, could anyone believe it… with brewing the Drought of Living Death!

This particular book had already taken a chunk out of the Hufflepuff sofas, rampaged through the dormitories of the Gryffindor Tower, leaving strips of burgundy colored bed coverings in its wake, and had finally been cornered in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, between the Boggart cabinet and the chest of Dementors.

Too bad for him there would be no quiet Friday night with a pair of fuzzy socks and his favorite knitting needles in front of the fire. Argus grabbed his net and set off down the corridor after the skittering boys. This thing had to be put down, he decided, once he got his hands on it again. Perhaps that old flask of firewhisky and a sturdy match would do it in.

Sixth year boys ran way too fast.

Argus rounded the corner and hustled up the stairs where he could still hear the boys below and the snarls of the fugitive book. It was starting to wake up now, and it was only a matter of time before it bit off a finger and flapped off to terrorize one of the tapestries. The Dancing Trolls were going to be missing their slippers if he didn’t hurry up.

He came to a halt in front of the second floor girls’ lavatory, but then hearing the growling mess echo through the stone room in front of him, he burst through, yelling at the indecency of it all.

“Stop! Yer not allowed in here! Bring back that book!”

To his surprise, the sink had been strangely broken apart, and a large passageway sat in a place that he’d tried hard to forget about for many years. 

“Blasted kids!” he muttered, and surged through. “Bound to get themselves killed down here.”

Giant stone pillars surrounded the large, open-spaced room, lit with torches, and to his surprise, Argus and the two boys he’d followed weren’t the only ones down there either.

A whole crowd of robed figures stood in the middle of the Chamber of Secrets, around what looked like a deep pit.

“Did you bring it?” someone yelled out.

“Sure did!” one of the boys called back, and dumped the snarling, snapping beast into the pit.

“Feisty one. Alright then, let’s mark it.” One of the boys lit his wand and sprayed a green mist down the pit. “That one’s green. Everyone place your bets, this is going to be good!”

Argus slowed his limping gait to watch. He was more intrigued by what was going to happen, now that the book wasn’t about to escape. There must be at least twenty students down here. He paused, calculating how many square feet of stone floor could get scrubbed during the next detention with that kind of man-power.

Let ‘em dig themselves deep, and then he’d come down hard like a hammer. 

Calls of sickles and galleons rose in the air, and several of the boys were busy scribbling down figures and names, and then, when the commotion settled down, one of the boys hefted a big bag over the pit.

“This one’s been Hogwarts Champion for over three months. Nothing’s beaten it yet. Let’s see how it does against Greenie. Any last bets? No? Let’s DO THIS THING!”

He threw the whole sack down in the pit.

An immediate ruckus came out of that pit. Growls and snarls, snapping and spitting and chomping… parchment bits flew and the whole group was covered in sprays of confetti. 

Then, silence. 

And a burp.

“Lemme through, lemme through!” Argus pushed his way to the pit and looked down. The green-tinted Monster Book of Monsters had eaten the other book down to the spine.

The group of boys murmured around him. “Hey, Finnegan. Thought you said the green one was yours.”

“Err… I sorta nicked it from Filch here,” the sheepish boy responded, giving Argus a don’t-hurt-me-too-badly smile.

Before Argus could say anything more, the whole crowd went wild. 

“That was the fiercest fight I’ve seen yet!”

“Did you use knives to sharpen its teeth?”

“That thing’s so fast, oh my Godric, did you see it devour the other one?”

“Your book rocks!”

Argus Filch didn’t give out any detentions that night. Instead, he left with his Monster Book of Monsters in his net, a bag of Galleons, and an appointment for next Friday night.


	9. The Durmstrang Curling Team

The Durmstrang Curling Team

 

Damaris flipped through a magazine with a picture of her latest obsession on the front cover. The Durmstrang Curling Team had just won its second regional championship. No one else in her dorm appreciated the sport the way she did. “It’s like chess on ice, Em.”

“No it isn’t,” Em countered. “I know your skills of persuasion can be superior, but there’s nothing you can say that will convince me that Curling is interesting. Or fun. Give it up.”

Damaris wasn’t about to give up the fight so soon. She continued the conversation on their way to breakfast. “Yeah, it is. It’s both, Em. We’re Ravenclaws, we’re supposed to like complex games of obscurity. There’s strategy AND skill.”

“And teamwork,” Itzel chimed in, reading over Damaris’ shoulder. “That’s not in chess.”

“But it works to our advantage here,” Damaris explained, wrapping her blue scarf securely around her neck. Even indoors, the Hogwarts winter chilled her.

“How do you figure that?” asked Lizeth as they sat down to eggs and bacon.

Suddenly the Great Hall doors opened, and a strange parade of young men entered, followed by the Headmaster of Hogwarts, who nodded and smiled like he had some scheme that no one else knew about up his sleeve.

Damaris clapped gleefully as the fit blokes walked in. “We get the entire Durmstrang Team!”

“What, four hot blokes?” Em asked. “But Hogwarts doesn’t even have a Curling Team. What are they doing here?”

Damaris turned a keen shade of pink and her dormmates all stared at her.

“What did you do?” they all chorused.

“I, um… sort of sent a letter to the Headmaster of Durmstrang…”

Itzel snorted. “And Dumbledore just… what? Went with it??”

“Apparently.”

Near the end of breakfast, Dumbledore pulled Damaris aside and whispered something in her ear.

“What’d he say?” Em asked.

Damaris looked ashen. “He said he wishes our team good luck on the ice. The first tournament is tomorrow morning at sunrise.”

***

Later that evening, Em shot through the dorm room. “Okay, so I polled the boys’ dorm, and no one wants to do it.”

Lizeth rolled her eyes. “What, polling? Of course not.”

“No, dummy! They don’t want to curl,” Em explained.

“What about the Slytherins?” Itzel asked.

“Nope.”

“Hufflepuffs?” Damaris asked hopefully.

She shook her curly head.

“Not even the Gryffindors?”

“Sorry.”

“Merlin’s hairy nostrils, Damaris! What were you thinking when you sent off that letter??”

“I was mostly thinking about hot blokes from Durmstrang, but now that they’re here…”

Em decided to take charge. “That settles it. Give me those books.”

“What are you doing?” Damaris asked her.

“I’m going to learn about curling. And so are you. Get Liz and Itzel over here. We need a foursome to play.”

***

Damaris was the least athletic of all of the girls, with scrawny arms and thighs you could wrap a rubber band around. People thought she was anorexic until they saw her at feasts. The girl could put down an entire key lime pie, and no one knew where it ended up. Damaris always shrugged and said it would reappear in twenty years on her hips. Until then, she was going to continue winning those hotdog eating competitions hands down.

In spite of her physical misgivings, Damaris had balance. She’d had dance lessons as a tyke, and could pirouette rings around anyone else who tried to outdo her. Not that anyone had tried, but, you know, just saying. She was also killer on ice skates and could handle a broom in the air. Sweeping should be a breeze for her.

She drew the hog lines in the Great Lake ice and stood back as Em set up the target, no… err… the ‘house’ for each side of the curling surface… the sheet, yeah, that’s what it was called in the books last night.

Em loved colors. Underneath her uniform, she wore stripey socks in rainbow formations, hidden neatly away under her school robes. It was incredibly beyond all interpretations of dress code, but that’s how she rolled. She also was rumored to have a tattoo of a harpie on her left shoulder blade, but being a modest girl, even her roommates of five years could neither confirm or deny it.

It drove the boys crazy with speculation.

After casting the color charm on the ice for the large blue circles, Em concentrated on the smaller red circles that were supposed to go inside them. She’d memorized the dimensions and was pleased with her handiwork.

Lizeth and Itzel weren’t twins. They weren’t even siblings. They simply had names that ‘looked’ like they were twins, and it didn’t help that their auburn hair was the exact same shade, or that their noses were similarly shaped. It wasn’t that they even looked identical, but people kept asking anyway, just to ramp up the irritation factor.

The two non-siblings had been preparing the stone and the curling brooms. It had taken most of the night to read through all the books that Em had gathered, so at five o’clock in the morning, they’d had to hustle to find implements that resembled the items they’d needed.

“Oooh, look! They’re coming!”

All the girls paused in their preparations to watch the Durmstrang boys march in formation from the castle to the ice. They looked good in their curling uniforms, but seriously, they’d look good in anything.

That’s when Em realized she’d forgotten about their team colors.

The largest, tallest of the boys approached them first. “Where is your Captain?” he asked.

“I’m the captain,” Liz spoke up. They’d all agreed last night that she was. “I’m Liz, by the way.”

“Cestmir,” the captain responded. He scrutinized the field of ice and the painted goals. He was making Liz nervous. Surely, she’d put the lines in the right place. “Where is the pebbling?” he asked.

“The… oh!” Liz had forgotten the spray bottle inside.

“Never mind,” Cestmir said. “Andrik will do it.”

One of the other boys nodded curtly and untucked a spray bottle from his belt. He began spraying the ice. Little beads of water formed on the surface, the ‘pebbling’. Liz hadn’t appreciated the way the books had described it, but seeing it for real made her understand the sweeping better.

“Ok,” Cestmir said. “We play.”

Liz, Em, Itzel and Damaris each took their places, and the game began.

They lost horribly on the first game. Itzel had completely lost track of the score when Andrik called a halt to it, saying that if it went on much longer, they would make the girls look worse than they already were. Insulting as it was, the girls were slightly grateful.

The second game was better, incrementally. Their delivery was awkward, the boys snickered at their attempts at draws, and all four girls burned their stone more than once. At some point, the entire match was called because of an incoming storm.

The girls didn’t mind. They were done with ice. Instead of putting up pretenses, they asked the boys up to the Ravenclaw common room, at first to apologize for tricking them into coming all this way for nothing, but mostly for an excuse to have a small party. 

“That’s alright,” Sandor said after his second glass of Firewhisky. “We knew Hogwarts didn’t have a real Curling team.”

“Then why did you come?” Em asked incredulously?

Cestmir and Borys smiled wide. “We heard what pretty girls they have here, and wanted to see for ourselves.”


	10. Whose Lawn Is it Anyway?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hagrid

Whose Lawn Is It Anyway?

 

“I heard it was a good game for the animals. Lots of room to run around and frolic in the sun, yeah?”

Ron and Hermione looked at each other, puzzled by Hagrid’s newest idea. Most of Hagrid’s ideas usually turned dangerous, and sometimes partially illegal.

“Have they been trained not to react badly to the mallets swinging at their feet?” Hermione asked.

Ron scratched his head as he read the rules pamphlet on Hagrid’s oak table. “I’ve never heard of this game. What’s Polo?”

“Oh,” Hagrid said, leaping to his feet, “it’s a great game!” He pounded an enthusiastic fist on the table, making the biscuits and tea jump in unison. His hut had been transformed into a dumping ground for mallets, polo balls, and bright purple helmets, one of which was giant-sized. Hagrid snatched it off the floor and plopped it on top of his bushy head. “The animals have been lookin’ forward to it too. I can see their eyes dancin’ when I talk about it. Let’s go!”

He shoved a helmet into Ron and Hermione’s hands and lumbered out of the hut to the pumpkin patch. Hermione managed to snatch the rules pamphlet off the table as they were rushed out the door.

“Umm… Hagrid, we’ve only got three quarters of a single team here. It says we need four players, and right now, it’s just you and Ron and myself,” she pointed out. “Who are we playing against?”

“Don’ worry, Hermione. They’ll show. Now, up yer get.” Hagrid had three hippogriffs waiting at the back of the hut. 

Ron balked. “You mean WE’RE playing Polish? On THOSE?”

“Don’t be a baby, Ron,” Hermione scolded. “Just read the rules. We don’t want to ruin Hagrid’s fun.”

After walking several miles through the Forbidden Forest (on hippogriffs, so no one was tired yet), the three riders noticed that the trees were finally thinning. The forest opened up onto a beautiful meadow.

Hermione thought it was beautiful. “I’ve never been here before. Where are we?”

Hagrid didn’t hear. He was looking intently across the field. “Ahh, here they come now!”

“Who?” Ron wanted to know. 

“The other team,” Hagrid said.

Sure enough, a group of three beasts appeared at the far edge of the field. Hermione recognized them as the three centaurs she’d met a while back. Firenze, Bane and Ronan shook their long manes and stomped their hooves, as if in challenge.

“Hagrid, they don’t look happy.”

“Never mind that, Hermione. Centaurs never look happy. I think it’s the shape of their upper lips that forces them to frown all the time. Hullo!” Hagrid urged his skittish mount across the field.

Hermione couldn’t hear the words they exchanged, but at one point there were loud voices and waving of arms on both sides. After what looked like a heated exchange that barely avoided blows, Hagrid rode back to them, beaming.

Ron looked horrified at Hermione. “We’re playing against centaurs??”

“Well,” Hermione said, now sounding a little nervous, “we might as well read the rules before the game gets started.

“Too late, i’s all set. We’re on this side and they’re on the other.” Hagrid popped open two portable goals and hurled them into place on either side of the field.

“We still only have three players each,” Hermione pointed out.

“Stop fussing about that,” Ron spoke up from reading the pamphlet. “We’re evenly matched. See?”

Hagrid had already gone to the center of the field, meeting Bane and exchanging mallets that he’d brought with him. He held a white ball above his head and threw it into the air.

“I don’t see anything about that in the rules,” Ron commented, but Hermione shushed him and shoved a mallet into his right hand.

“The game is starting Ron. Get into position!”

Ron had no idea what he was doing, so he crouched on the back of his mount, who had started flapping its wings in excitement. “Okay boy,” he said to it, “go get that ball!” 

His hippogriff took off into the air and landed several feet away from Bane’s swinging mallet and snatched the ball out of the air before it could hit dirt.

“Foul!” shouted Bane, pointing his stick at Ron. 

“What?”

“Oh,” Hagrid said, disappointed. “Yer not supposed to go up in the air during the match. You got to sit out for the rest of the chukka.”

“The what?” Ron asked. “What does that even mean?”

Somehow, they managed to start again, with Ron cheering on Hermione from the sidelines. Hermione charged ahead and took a swing at the ball, nearly taking off Firenze’s head in the process. Firenze came up short and pointed to her.

“No left hand playing. She’s out.”

“Well, this is no fun,” Hermione said, sulking on the sidelines with Ron. “We didn’t even have time to learn the rules of the game. They’re penalizing us for things we don’t even know.”

“Yeah, but at least Hagrid gets to have fun,” Ron said.

They watched as Hagrid made a decent swing and hit the ball far down the field. He urged his hippogriff to gallop after it, nearly running down Ronan in the process. Ronan swerved sharply and came up side Hagrid’s mount, shoving his withers against the hippogriff’s hide, knocking Hagrid out of the line of the ball. Ronan shoved again, and almost succeeded in knocking Hagrid off his mount altogether.

“Foul! Foul!” Ron and Hermione shouted together, but it was quickly explained to them that THAT type of maneuver was allowed in Polo.

“This Polio game makes no sense,” Ron grumbled.

In the next move, Bane slid next to Hagrid’s steed at full speed, and suddenly fell down, hard.

“Penalty to Hagrid!” shouted Ronan, and forced Hagrid off the field.

Ron took off his helmet and threw it on the group. “This is bollucks! How are we going to play if the whole team is taken out of the game??”

“You’re not,” Firenze said gravely. “The game is called. Hagrid said that if we win, you will leave without argument.”

“But we hardly started to play,” Hermione argued, until she was quieted by the looks Bane and Ronan were giving her.

“We win by default,” Firenze said. “Now get off our lawn!!”


	11. Sous Chef Twiggy and the Amazing Race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House elves can use knives too.

Sous Chef Twiggy and the Amazing Race

 

Of the four finalists for this year’s competition, Twiggy the young house elf had come in just under the qualifying time. That had been months ago. She’d been practicing hard ever since. The muscles in her chopping shoulder flexed. Her wrist had become supple with speed.

She did her warm-up before approaching the table. Touch the toes, rotate the neck. Shake it all out. She needed to be loose and limber for this.

Onions. Fifteen pounds finely minced in under five minutes. Could she do it?

If she won, she’d be elevated to Head Sous Chef of Hogwarts, alongside the great Head Chef-Elf Kadibbly, who had run the Hogwarts Kitchen for half a century.

If she lost, she would shame her speed-chopping family and go back to scrubbing pots. Twiggy wanted to get as far away from scalding water and wire brushes as she could. Wielding her knife, she stepped up to the chopping block.

An enormous pot of red onions sat on the ground next to her chopping block. Bulbs the size of her head balanced on top of each other and threatened to roll right off the top of the pot. Twiggy started to get worried. She hadn’t practiced with onions of this size before.

She gave her competitor, Sod, a quick nod and sharpened her blade. The satisfying ‘schick’ of the metal over rock soothed her nerves.

Zabor and Loopy were at the ready as well, knives gleaming and chopping blocks oiled.

Old Toodly, the current about-to-retire Head Sous Chef and Twiggy’s esteemed uncle, held an empty horn-shaped basket up to his mouth and shouted, “Get ready to begin. Competitors, pick up your knives! Ready, set, go!”

“Salt, salt, salt!” chanted the crowd.

Twiggy took the canister of salt and sprinkled like her life depended on it. Then she set blade to root and chopped. The grinding of onion against mineral kept the tiny pieces from sticking to the knife as she peeled, minced and scraped each head-sized onion in seconds flat.

Fifteen seconds in, and Sod was already three onions ahead. Twiggy gulped and chopped faster. Her eyes had already begun to water, and she felt her hand cramp up.

No, she thought to herself. This cannot be happening! Twiggy tried for a solid minute to chop her way out of the fatigue, but her fingers began to sweat, and by the end of the first minute, her knife was slipping.

She couldn’t do it like this. She had to stop and wipe her hand. Drink some water. Sod grinned at her evilly as he took his next three onions and sliced them in one stroke. Twiggy set the knife down and wiped at her eyes with the cloth around her waist. Then her hand. Then she took a long drink. She may have to scrub pots, but she was going to come out of this with all ten fingers, no matter what.

Twiggy picked up her knife and twirled it in her fingers. Her wrist only needed the short rest to get back to prime chopping condition. She started in again on her onions, unwilling to forfeit. If she came in second or third, maybe her family would have mercy on her and allow her to enter next year for another shot at fame and glory.

Steeled by this thought, Twiggy chopped with vigor. She didn’t look up at her competitors any more. She chopped with singular focus, taking one onion at a time and slicing and dicing until it lay on her board in tiny, perfect cubes. With each onion, she got faster and faster, until finally she reached down into the big pot and found it empty.

“We have a winner!”

Twiggy sighed. She placed her knife down on the block and wiped her hands again. Her arms felt like noodles, but she’d done her best and in the end, she hadn’t required any band-aids. 

Old Toodley came over and yanked Twiggy’s poor, shaking chopping arm over her head, nearly ripping it out of its socket. She glanced over in surprise at Sod, who had five more onions in his pot and a sour face. Her insides danced the conga. She had done her onion-chopping family proud!

There would be no more scalding hot soapy water in her future. From now on, she was going to live and breathe peeled potatoes and go to bed smelling like garlic. She stood on the pedestal and graciously accepted the empty gallon jug of vinegar. Then she held it over her head and let out a victory ‘whoop’. 

The crowd went wild.


	12. Madame Pudifoot and the Dating Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madame Pudifoot

Madame Puddifoot and the Dating Game

 

Madame Puddifoot bustled around her shop, burning off nervous energy like an alpaca with a pacing problem. In ten minutes, her tea shop would be reopen for business, a Grand Opening of Gran Proportions. She had invited everyone she knew, bribed strangers, set up a Main Event with lots of advertising over at the Hog’s Head and the Three Broomsticks.

Her assistant, a mousy little thing with stringy hair had been up all night, putting the final touches on the window treatments, rose patterned draperies held back by huge, ostentatious pink bows. 

“Drink some of this,” Madame said, shoving a steaming mug into the poor girl’s hand. It was her personal mix of peppermint bark and Earl Grey, with a heavy dose of a caffeine potion. The girl looked like she needed it.

“The guests of honor are arriving,” the girl said. 

“Put them in their seats quickly before the doors open. I want everyone in their places before I open the doors!”

She turned her back on the assistant, trusting that things would go as planned and checked her watch. It was time! Madame marched up to the front doors and flung them open, squinting in the bright sun.

“Welcome to Puddifoots!” she exclaimed to the crowd. Elation zoomed through her as people came in and started filling up seats.

With a big smile on her face, Madame spun around to face the stage and almost had a heart attack at the sight of the three men on their pedestals. 

One was a burly man, all hair and nose, who looked like a serial killer that had left his axe at home.

The next was a smarmy bloke in a smartly tailored set of dress robes. As handsome as he was, his constant winking and pursing of his lips went over like a nervous tick.

The third contestant smelled like the sewer. She wasn’t sure where he came from, but his card read “Jim”, and he’d already dirtied up the podium. To replace him would be a disaster. No one would want to sit where he’d been without a thorough scrubbing, and she didn’t have time for that.

Ah, it would be alright. The proffered lady wouldn’t be able to see them. Madame quickly scanned the crowd, and seeing that none of her patrons were reacting badly to the sight, she shrugged off her misgivings and took her place on the stage… a bit farther to the left from the smelly man.

She bravely faced the audience. Puddifoots was packed. Tea and hot cakes were selling like… hot cakes. 

Profit or bust. The show must go on.

She gave her assistant the ‘eye signal’. Cue the music!

Her assistant jumped to attention and cranked up the gramophone. It sputtered and let out a groan. The assistant kicked the table underneath and aimed her wand at it, but before she could threaten it with a curse, it revved to life and spun round and round. She then put the needle on with a delicately lifted pinky.

Airy freestyle jazz filled the air of the shop and Royal Albert Confetti patterned plates zoomed through the air, making little twirling formations before settling onto the tables in front of her guests. 

Rose patterned tea pots floated through the air, followed by rose patterned platters of sugar cubes, prepackaged creamers (to avoid unnecessary spills on her remodeled rose-wood floors) and licorice stirring sticks (all the rage in London, she’d heard), stopping at all the guests, who from time to time, picked among the condiments for their beverages.

Casting a quick Sonorous, Madame addressed the crowd. “Welcome to the grand opening of Madame Puddifoot’s Tea shop! I am so happy all of you came! To start us off, I have arranged a little game, where one lucky girl gets to have a date with one of these marvelously eligible bachelors, right here in this shop, all expenses paid by me. I introduce to you....”

The cards! Madame shuffled them out of her robe pocket and began to read, “girl sits in chair… girl asks questions… girl…”

These were her assistant’s cards! Madame smiled sweetly at the audience. “One moment, please.” She scurried over to her assistant, who was trying not to fall asleep at the phonograph. “Where is the girl? You know, the girl who asks the questions and picks the date! Where is she??”

Her assistant’s eyes snapped open and her little mouth formed an apologetic “oh”, and Madame Puddifoot realized that there was no girl, only three questionable bachelors. The crowd restlessly started tapping their spoons on their rosey plates, and she formulated a plan.

“Get up there!” she hissed at her assistant. “And give me that apron!”

The mousy girl jumped out of her seat in surprise as Madame prodded her up to the stage. “Here she is!” she announced, “a little shy, but so very excited!” She gave the girl another poke. “Look excited,” she muttered under her breath, and miraculously, the girl gave a small smile.

“Alright you love birds, a few rules before we start. No questions about age, name or occupation…” she paused at that rule, wishing she hadn’t said it aloud. These were not the contestants she’d picked out herself. Her assistant was going to get a good sacking when this was over.

“Now…err… what’s your name?” Madame hadn’t actually caught the girl’s name when she scooped her off the street yesterday and forced her into paid servitude.

“Mildred,” the girl said softly.

“Ahh, Mildred, what a… sweet name.” Madame forced a grimace onto her face. “Mildred will ask each of these gentlemen a question, and based on their answers, she will pick one to be her date this afternoon!”

“Umm, okay,” Mildred said, bewildered at her new role. “Number one, what is your favorite spice?”

The burly man burped.

“Number two, how long did it take you to get from where you were yesterday to where you are right now?”

The smarmy robed bloke flashed an incredible smile. “I have to say…” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. Then in a much higher pitch, he finished, “about twenty-four hours.”

Mildred blinked.

“Well, go on,” Madame ventured. Fortunately, the crowd really wasn’t watching the show anymore. The merengues had come out, and everyone was too busy stuffing their faces. 

“Number three,” the girl said shyly, “What is your favorite number?”

“Ahh, that’s easy,” said the smelly man. “It’s four.”

Mildred gasped. “Mine too!” she exclaimed and broke through the partition to fall into Number Three’s arms. They kissed passionately.

She shooed the couple off the stage. “Get a private table, you two!”

 

“Hey, I thought you said there was another round of questions!” shouted the crackly voiced good-dresser.

“Can I have my ice cream now?” asked the hairy face with the nose.

“Ahh, well.” Madame Puddifoot was amazed that no one was even paying attention to the antics on the stage. But her calculating mind had totaled up the net earnings of the afternoon, and it gave her a contented feeling deep in her bones. 

“I guess we’re done here.”


	13. What's In the Hat?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seamus Finnigan has a magic hat.

Seamus Finnegan stood on the corner of Piccadilly Square and pulled a rabbit out of his hat. A crowd of people around him applauded and he stuffed the animal back inside. He nodded politely, his smile growing wider as the hat filled with coins and bills. It was Muggle money, but he had an account at Gringotts… a very small account, but it was better than nothing. Jobs were scarce right after the war, and a man had to eat. 

It was good that he’d excelled in Transfiguration. It was the only thing that kept a soft pillow under his head at night. But things were looking up. He’d found the secret to making money out of nothing. A lot of times, he used an old shoe and Transfigured it. Whatever it took, he was going to pull out of this slump.

He packed up his sign and put his hat on his head, just about ready to cross the street and enter Diagon Alley when Neville came running up to him in a panic.

“What are you doing? Are you crazy?? You’re going to get picked up by the Ministry for breaking the Statute of Secrecy!!”

“Calm down, mate. I’ve got it all handled.” Neville made a sour face and hustled him into an alley.

“I can’t believe this. You’re doing it again! It’ll be like back in Hogwarts, when you pre-made your potions and tried to pass them off as the stuff you made in class. I’m in Auror training, and my friend’s out on the street breaking laws. It’s going to get us both into trouble!”

Seamus donned his hat and pushed Neville aside. His stomach was a self-eating pit and today he had the cash to fill it. “Pfft! Are you here to harass me, or are we going to eat. I skipped lunch.”

His friend’s indignance faded. “Yeah, okay.”

They walked through the revolving bricks and sat down at the bar. After cornish pasties, Neville looked more ready to listen, so he tried again.

“Listen, it’s not what you think it is.”

“Wait a sec,” Neville said, and downed a shot of Firewhisky. “Alright, I’m ready. Explain it to me.”

“Muggles think magic is trickery, and they love this stuff! I give them a little fun, and they give me money. It’s about as honest as you can get. Here, let me show you this new game I just learned.”

He got out a deck of cards and shuffled. “Muggles really love this one. It’s called Jack the Black. You get a card, and I get a card. Okay, so the face cards are all equal to ten, and you try to get up to the number twenty-one without going over.”

Seamus clumsily dealt out two cards face up, and then dealt another card face down. “What did you get?” 

“Sixteen.”

“That’s great. I got twelve. You win.”

Neville’s bleary eyes brightened. “I won! Hey, this is pretty fun.”

Seamus threw the cards up in the air and they landed all over the bar. Then he Summoned them into a pile and shoved them into his hat. “Err, well. Before I take this one to the street, I’m going to have to learn to shuffle.”

“I guess you’re not really showing the Muggles magic then, are you?” Neville asked.

“Not really. I mean, it’s a magic hat alright, but it’s Charmed that way. I don’t have to do anything to it. People really just wanna see what’s inside.”

A munching sound came from inside the hat.

“So what’s really in the hat?”

Seamus took his hat off and looked inside. Deep down in the spacious lining, here was Peanut, munching on carrots and barley. He shuffled his feet amongst the coins and bills and settled on top of them, making a little nest out of the money Seamus had earned that day. Seamus tilted the hat so his friend could look down too.

“It’s a rabbit.”


	14. What Did I Do Wrong?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neville's friend won't co-operate.

It’s just sitting there. That doesn’t work. It can’t just sit there. Move, move, MOVE!!!

Neville’s toad sat, solid as stone at the starting line. Every other toad had moved somewhere. Some had even gone backwards. Goyle had shown up at the last minute with an ugly looking warted thing, and even his toad had found something interesting about the edge of the table and meandered an inch away from the red line. Seamus’ toad (the one he’d just picked up from the Greenhouses minutes before the race) was already a foot down the table, two more hops, and he’d be crossing the finish line.

Neville’s toad just sat there. Across the Great Hall, Lavender Brown and some of her friends were learning the rudimentary rules of Gobstones. Neville thought about pulling his toad right then and joining them. He’d probably have better luck over there.

Why wasn’t his toad moving?

Seamus screamed like a loud and boisterous banshee next to him. Toad races really weren’t that exciting, Neville thought, but there weren’t many ways for the first years to entertain themselves when all the older students were out at Hogsmeade for the day. Neville had thought a toad race would be a good idea, and since he had a personal relationship with a certain toad, he expected the win to be a shoe in.

Neville’s toad still didn’t move.

“He doesn’t like me,” Neville said, mostly to himself. Even Goyle was getting excited when his toad took another step and almost teetered off the table. 

“Go, little toady!!!” Seamus yelled. His toad picked up a webbed toe and placed it a millimeter in front of the other.

Goyle’s toad had finally found his stride, and was steadily hopping down the table. “I’m gonna be in second place!” he said. “Woah, that’s cool! Look at him go!”

Neville’s toad sat.

“Look,” Neville said to his pet. “I thought you were my friend. We’ve been together for, what now, six months? I treat you well, don’t I? I gave you grubs this morning. If you’d just move, I’ll… I don’t know what I’ll do. Do you want flies? Earwigs? Oh, nevermind.”

Neville turned his back on his toad and pouted. Suddenly, Seamus let out a huge scream.

“Neville!!”

Neville spun around just in time to see his toad take a flying leap, all the way off the table, past the finish line and land in Lavender’s hair, who had been minding her own business at the Gobstones table. She let out a squeal and flailed her hands around, scattering stones all over the floor.

It was the longest leap Neville had ever seen.

“You won! You won!” Seamus was shouting, while Goyle kicked the side of the table in frustration. “Now I’m third! That’s not fair!”

Neville’s toad leapt off Lavender’s head, almost taking flight, he hopped so high. Then he landed on a high windowsill and gobbled up a spider sitting there.

“I didn’t know toads could leap so high,” Seamus said. “You’ve got the best toad in the castle, Neville!”

Neville was proud of his pet, receiving back claps from the other two students who had come out to watch. 

Now, how was he going to get his toad down from that sill?


	15. Summers at the Burrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose and her brother stay up too late.

“Ring around the rosies…”

Rose and Hugo twirled round and round, and endless spinning circle. Her braids flew wide from her face, and her hands grew sweaty from the summer sun. She was young and the sky was large. Somewhere behind them, her parents watched over them, whispering words that they should hear about what happened before they were born.

Terror and death. Good people gone.

Hugo fell and cut his knee, and Rose cried. She tried to wipe the blood away, but it pooled on the floor and someone handed her half of a mirror. She stuck it in her pocket and then stuck her head into the fire.

“A pocket full of posies…”

Nana Weasley’s garden bloomed in June. Daffodils nodded their sleepy heads above bushes of red and thorns adorned the borders. Hugo’s cut watered them. So did Rose’s tears. So many people named after the dead. Albus was a headmaster and James was a brave man and Severus was brave too for different reasons… and Rose was suddenly happy that her name came from something still alive.

“Ashes, ashes, we all fall…”

The gravestones made her feel empty. They tied wreaths with sparkling bows and paid their respects to the people who made their world a better place. They remembered sacrifices and cursed the people who made those sacrifices necessary.

Hogwarts in ruins. Snakes and missing noses and bodies everywhere. Her grandmother’s wand, pointing, shaking, red light smashing into a faceless evil with wild, black hair and a maniacal laugh.

Rose fell through glass. Needles of ice pricked her skin, falling away from everything and everyone that she had ever loved. 

Falling and cold. Freezing water and darkness. She fought against some invisible force that was holding her under. Breathe! Live! Screams and shards and…

“Rose!”

Her body trembled, and her fingertips detached from her senses. It was cold. It was hot. She couldn’t find the air...

“Wake up, Rose!”

She pried her heavy eyes open. Hugo’s face swam in front of her. She heard him, as if he was far, far away. “Rose, are you alright?”

Rose sat up and rubbed her face with the back of her hand. “I had the most horrible dream,” she said. “You were bleeding, and we visited the graveyard, and then I was in the middle of one of Uncle Harry’s stories.”

“It was just a bad dream,” he said, climbing up on her bed with her. His head rested on her arm, and Rose felt herself grow heavy with sleep again. They’d played in Nana’s garden until the moon was high, spinning and laughing and falling, and then they all sat around the fire and the grownups had told stories.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She tried to be good and listen, because it was important. Because her parents said she should know and understand. But sometimes, everything got to be too much, and she just wanted to be a kid. She cried into Hugo, and even though he didn’t understand why, he hugged her back and cried too.

“Don’t let Daddy tell me war stories before bed anymore,” she sobbed.


End file.
